Black and Gold
by flawedesires
Summary: Nico's life had been tainted since birth; death and sorrow and all things black were in his blood. He was used to being selfish, to wanting things he could not have. And she was certainly one of them, golden from the halo of her hair to the marks of someone else written all over her skin. And it was because of her that he began to wonder if the inside of his heart was black too.


**Yes, I've risen from the dead. I wrote this little oneshot a long time ago, but have only just perfected and deemed it worthy enough to be published.**

**Personally, I don't ship these two; once upon a time, I read a wonderful series on this sort of thing, and I have to say I love the idea. And you know how I love to write obnoxious, impossible angst like this.  
**

**Hope you like it x  
**

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It all started as an accident.

You were friends. Albeit awkward ones, but friends all the same. Her boyfriend was your best friend. Your best friend was her boyfriend. It was automatic, default. Yet, you never really talked in the beginning. You just sort of pretended, not really meeting eyes, not really conversing in the crowded room, not really anything more than linked people. Why would you be real friends, anyway? She was her, the beautiful architect so out of your reach. You were you, the somewhat good-looking, somewhat sullen goof, so beneath her whether you liked it or not.

Instead of you, she talked to her best friend, the girl whose very personality was prickly, and discussed impossible things with the red-haired prophet. She scolded the mischievous twins and laughed aloud with the green-thumbed girl. You? You sparred with him, your cousin, and horsed around with the horned satyr. You conversed with the dead that had become your company and shared your innermost fears with the shadow that was once your sister.

You were polar opposites, she golden and you blackened.

You remembered—oh, you would always remember—when you first met her. Admittedly, you saw her boyfriend first (even though they weren't there yet), and your initial thought of him was "brave," because you were sure you could never be like that, taking on a fight you would never win. And you knew he was a hero at heart.

And then you saw her. She was different than any other girl you'd seen, wrathful and feisty and afraid of nothing. And you remembered thinking goddess as you watched her charge a monster head on.

And the funny thing was, that thought never dissipated.

As you grew older, so did they. She became even more beautiful. He became even braver. She became more beloved. So did he. And soon it was evident: he was king—of everything, it seemed. Their friends, their camp, the world. And she, with her serenity, her wisdom, her beauty, was his queen. She always would be.

And you suddenly were okay with the fact that while she had him, she would never look at you. Not that way you needed anyway, and that kept you at bay. But, curse her, she tried to help you like the goodly saint that she was, with everything. Whether it was girls or saving the world or just life. She cared about you. She was there for you, with concern in her eyes and wisdom in her words.

But what could you say to her? You kept it all bottled up and tried to smile for her, then trashed yourself at bars and fucked that blonde all by herself who sort of looked exactly like her, if only you drank enough first. And she was the one who nursed your hangover in the morning. _She was always there to help._

And then gradually, the greater the need for his skill, the longer he was not. And it became more often than not that the king was absent from his palace, leaving his kingdom without a ruler and his queen quite alone.

_Take care of her._

And it was then that you found yourself keeping her company throughout the long weeks. Because he asked you to, you told yourself. Because that's what friends do. But maybe that wasn't it. You cooked for her and enjoyed it. You shredded papers for her in her study and grinned while doing it. You listened to her architectural lectures and found them fascinating. And as if it were possible, she became even more perfect in your eyes.

_I will._

You loved the look on her face when she talked about her blueprints. You loved the twinkle in her eyes when she joked. You loved her smile. Her laugh. Her voice. Her humor. You loved her.

And the funny thing was, it turned out you promised him the one thing you could not do.

You tried—oh you tried so hard—to stay away from her once you realized it. You blew off as many hangouts as possible, deleted her voicemails, left her in a certain redhead's capable hands. And it hurt badly to hear that she missed you.

And you were ashamed to think you were so weak.

She was bored and lonely, after being deserted twice: once by him, once by you, and she called you again. This time, you listened.

She wanted a party—at your place, no less, and she wanted it now. And that "yes" slipped out of your mouth so fast you couldn't stop it. And she was so delighted it was almost impossible to feel guilty.

Your promise to him had made a brand on your mind still, and you managed to make yourself feel better by not drinking and instead making sure she didn't go too wild. That attempt failed, ultimately. The night went on to become one colored with binge drinking, vibrating walls, and dancing on tables, not the mention the wreckage of most of your apartment, but you didn't care. How could you, when it made her laugh so?

But after a while, it was just you and her. And it was suddenly not as easy as you thought, because she was piss drunk and laughing hysterically, and you were well on your way there.  
But after a couple more beers your sense and your nobility—which had turned to shit lately—took hold of you again.

And it's because of that that the accident happened.

You tried to help her to your couch, because neither of you were sober enough to drive, and you simply had to take care of her. You pulled her arm around your neck and put an arm around her waist-and gods the feel of her curve against your palm was so good you pause. But, drunk off her ass as she was, she kept walking, and promptly tripped over your coffee table. And this was enough to yank your reflexes out of your drunken haze because you just had to save her, and when you caught her, you were inches from the floor...and her face. Gods help you, you couldn't look at her without falling deeper. She was so goddess-like she was unreal, with her deep gray eyes and glossed lips that were so enticing you... Kissed her.

And the funny thing was, she, the smart one, the good one, his one, didn't push you away.  
And then it was much too easy to grab her and push her onto the nearest surface and make her love you, at least for the night.

And the funny thing was, you didn't even feel guilty until you woke up.  
And when you did, you didn't just feel guilty. You felt terrified, that you could look at almost every surface in your place and remember a particularly genius move of hers that drove you harder, or a moment when you were able to grasp her smooth thigh and pull her even closer, or waking up with her wanting more.

But every passing moment with her asleep against your chest and you twirling her hair around one finger felt wrong, because this belonged to him and not you. She belonged to him and not you, no matter how much you wanted her to.

And it was easier when she ran out the door without another word. That way you could punish yourself for being so stupid. And you stared at the door, the phone, waiting for an angry phone call or a furious boyfriend, but they didn't come.

Instead when you opened that door, she was there. And she said nothing. She simply reached up and wrapped herself around you and you fell even deeper into her.

And that's how it was created, your affair. And you loved it almost as much as you hated it, except you hated it so much more.

And when he returned, the hero he always is, he kissed her, reclaiming his treasures, and patted you on the back, as if you didn't betray him. As if you deserved it.

And you felt like you should go to hell and just let them be happy. But what did that mean for your happiness?

And the funny thing was, she didn't want to stop. She waited until he was away, or he took his eyes off her for a little while and then she'd come and heal your heart a little more. And then she'd go back to him and break it all over again.

And you knew—oh, more than _anything_, you knew—that if anyone it would be her to break it off, because she was just so emgood./em She was the good ruler of the old tales, golden and generous and forever by the side of her lover, just and perfect and in every way a better man than you.

And you'd go back to standing in the background behind their thrones, crumbling to dust.  
But you had her. And until he took her from you, you'd never let her go.

Except her glances began to lose their twinkle and her smiles lost their smirking charm. And she no longer prompted you for a quickie in the closet or in your cabin with her eyes. And at first you were confused, but then you realized-she was guilty.

And then it was over. It was written in stone with the diamond ring he presented her with. And she looked at you while she was hugging him, and you knew half the tears she was crying were for you.  
And you kept your mouth shut, standing there all in black-black for mourning, black for the color of your heart, you chuckled darkly to yourself-while she looked like the queen she was all in white and he was so fucking lucky, grinning wide.

And the first words she said to you after that rock was on her finger were whispered in your ear as she hugged you, just after the "I do."

_You deserve better. _

Wise as she was it had to have been the stupidest thing to ever come out of her mouth. You deserved nothing but the hollowness in your chest and the ache in your mind and the exhausting tax of putting tight smiles on your face whenever he looked at you.

You never spoke of the matter again. One glance passed from her grey eyes to your black and you had a mutual understanding. You would hold your tongues and bury the guilt six feet under-or you would bury yourselves. She kept the secret for him, and you kept it for her. But she thanked you in little ways: by keeping her distance, reserving those small, pretty little smiles for you, giving yours and your mother's names to her own children when they were born. Little things with blonde and black hair that screamed and wailed and tightened your grip on it all as you watched from the shadows in the hospital room.

_You deserve better,_ she had said. Why did that haunt you so? The truth was, _she_ deserved better. Better than you. Selfish, selfish you, black from head to toe, inside and out. She deserved _him_, and you deserved to pay the price.

And pay you did. You were there until that raven-haired girl and grey-eyed boy that bore your names were up and grown and the king of heroes, your best friend until the end, was gone and buried with his ears sealed to your treachery, and you were there until the phone no longer rang and she could scarcely move anymore.

And you were there until you could take her wrinkled old hand and smooth it young, and join it once again with the man she deserved so much more than you in an eternity you ensured for them. Then, and only then, did you allow yourself to crumble.

Only then did you let the blackness swallow you completely.

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**If you're a fan of Voyage and have come to this utterly excited or something of the like, I'm truly sorry to announce that there will not be a sequel. To see the rest of this explanation, go look at the author's note at the very end of the story.**

**Thanks x  
**

**~ Mia ~  
**


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